Death of Kings. Bernard Cornwell
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be welcome in his palace even if I wanted to see him. I had been told Æthelflaed had gone to Wintanceaster for the Christmas feast, but more likely she had been summoned for the death-watch rather than for the dubious delights of her father’s table.
‘And Edward will inherit?’ Beortsig asked.
‘That’s what Alfred wants.’
‘And who becomes king in Mercia?’ he asked.
‘There is no king in Mercia,’ I said.
‘There should be,’ he said bitterly, ‘and not a West Saxon either! We’re Mercians, not West Saxons.’ I said nothing in response. There had once been kings in Mercia, but now it was subservient to Wessex. Alfred had managed that. His daughter was married to the most powerful of the Mercian ealdormen, and most Saxons in Mercia seemed content that they were effectively under Alfred’s protection, but not all Mercians liked that West Saxon dominance. When Alfred died the powerful Mercians would start eyeing their empty throne, and Beortsig, I supposed, was one such man. ‘Our forefathers were kings here,’ he told me.
‘My forefathers were kings in Northumbria,’ I retorted, ‘but I don’t want the throne.’
‘Mercia should be ruled by a Mercian,’ he said. He seemed uncomfortable in my company, or perhaps he was uneasy because we rode deep into the lands that Sigurd claimed.
We rode directly north, the low winter sun throwing our shadows far ahead of us. The first steadings we passed were nothing but burned out ruins, then after midday we came to a village. The people had seen us coming, and so I took my horsemen into the nearby woods until we had rousted a couple out of their hiding place. They were Saxons, a slave and his wife, and they said their lord was a Dane. ‘Is he in his hall?’ I asked.
‘No, lord.’ The man was kneeling, shaking, unable to lift his eyes to meet my gaze.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jarl Jorven, lord.’
I looked at Beortsig, who shrugged. ‘Jorven is one of Sigurd’s men,’ he said, ‘and not really a jarl. Maybe he leads thirty or forty warriors?’
‘Is his wife in the hall?’ I asked the kneeling man.
‘She’s there, lord, and some warriors, but not many. The rest have gone, lord.’
‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know, lord.’
I tossed him a silver coin. I could scarcely afford it, but a lord is a lord.
‘Yule is coming,’ Beortsig said dismissively, ‘and Jorven has probably gone to Cytringan.’
‘Cytringan?’
‘We hear Sigurd and Cnut are celebrating Yule there,’ he said.
We rode away from the wood, back into a damp pasture. Clouds were hiding the sun now, and I thought it would begin to rain before long. ‘Tell me about Jorven,’ I said to Beortsig.
He shrugged. ‘A Dane, of course. He arrived two summers ago and Sigurd gave him this land.’
‘Is he kin to Sigurd?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘His age?’
Another shrug. ‘Young.’
And why would a man go to a feast without his wife? I almost asked the question aloud, then thought that Beortsig’s opinion would be worthless and so I kept silent. Instead I kicked my horse on until I reached a place where I could see Jorven’s hall. It was a fine enough building with a steep roof and a bull’s skull attached to the high gable. The thatch was new enough to have no moss. A palisade surrounded the hall and I could see two men watching us. ‘This would be a good time to attack Jorven,’ I said lightly.
‘They’ve left us in peace,’ Beortsig said.
‘And you think that will last?’
‘I think we should turn back,’ he said, and then, when I said nothing, he added, ‘if we want to make home by nightfall.’
Instead I headed farther north, ignoring Beortsig’s complaints. We left Jorven’s hall unmolested and crossed a low ridge to see a wide valley. Small smoke trails showed where villages or steadings stood, and glimmers of dull light betrayed a river. A fine place, I thought, fertile and well-watered, exactly the sort of land that the Danes craved. ‘You say Jorven has thirty or forty warriors?’ I asked Beortsig.
‘No more.’
‘One crew, then,’ I said. So Jorven and his followers had crossed the sea in a single ship and sworn loyalty to Sigurd, who in return had given him frontier land. If the Saxons attacked, Jorven would likely die, but that was the risk he ran, and the rewards could be much greater if Sigurd decided to attack southwards. ‘When Haesten was here, last summer,’ I asked Beortsig as I urged my horse forward, ‘did he give you trouble?’
‘He left us alone,’ he said. ‘He did his damage farther west.’
I nodded. Beortsig’s father, I thought, had become tired of fighting the Danes and he was paying tribute to Sigurd. There could be no other reason for the apparent peace that had prevailed on Beornnoth’s land, and Haesten, I assumed, had left Beornnoth alone on Sigurd’s orders. Haesten would never have dared to offend Sigurd, so doubtless he had avoided the lands of those Saxons who paid for peace. That had left him most of southern Mercia to ravage, and he had burned, raped and pillaged until I took away most of his strength at Beamfleot. Then, in fear, he had fled to Ceaster.
‘Something worries you?’ Finan asked me. We were riding down towards the distant river. A thin rain was blowing from our backs. Finan and I had spurred ahead, out of earshot of Beortsig and his men.
‘Why would a man go to the Yule feast without his wife?’ I asked Finan.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s ugly. Maybe he keeps something younger and prettier for feast days?’
‘Maybe,’ I grunted.
‘Or maybe he’s been summoned,’ Finan said.
‘And why would Sigurd summon warriors in midwinter?’
‘Because he knows about Eohric?’
‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ I said.
The rain was coming harder, gusting on a sharp wind. The day was closing in, dark and damp and cold. Remnants of snow lay white in frozen ditches. Beortsig tried to insist that we turn back, but I kept riding north, deliberately going close to two large halls. Whoever guarded those places must have seen us, yet no one rode out to challenge us. Over forty armed men, carrying shields and spears and swords, were riding through their country and they did not bother to discover who we were or what we did? That told me that the halls were lightly guarded. Whoever saw us pass was content to let us go in the hope that we would ignore them.
And then, ahead of us, was the scar on the land. I checked my horse at its edge. The scar ran across our path, gouged into the water meadows on the southern bank of the river, which was being dimpled by raindrops. I turned my horse then, pretending no interest in the trampled ground and deep hoof-prints. ‘We’ll go back,’ I told Beortsig.
The scar had been made by horses. Finan, as he rode into the cold rain, edged his stallion close to mine. ‘Eighty men,’ he said.
I nodded. I trusted his judgement. Two crews of men had ridden from west to east and the hooves of their horses had trampled that scar into the waterlogged ground. Two crews were following the river to where? I slowed my horse, letting Beortsig catch us. ‘Where did you say Sigurd was celebrating Yule?’ I asked.
‘Cytringan,’ he said.
‘And where’s Cytringan?’
He pointed north. ‘A good day’s journey, probably two. He keeps a feasting hall there.’
Cytringan